


Fullest Freedom

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Play, Community: holmes_minor, Holmes is Very Sensitive, Impact Play, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, POV Alternating, Story: A Case of Identity, Story: The Adventure of the Reigate Squire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-07 16:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: What use had I for freedom?ACD. Holmes/Watson. PWP. Light d/s & bondage. Nipple play. Anal play. Impact play.





	1. Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the canon short story "The Reigate Squires": _"...when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plan..."_
> 
> This scene takes place immediately after the story "A Case of Identity." 
> 
> This chapter was written for the DW Holmes Minor 2019 May monthly prompt: freedom.

_“You’re being a consummate ass about this, Holmes! I ought to take a horse-whip to you myself!”_  
  
The words hung in the ether between us.  
  
The words shot into my blood as if they’d been injected.  
  
The words conjured a postcard image I’d kept locked away in a strong box in my attic brain.  
  
The words evaporated, fled in the night like unlawful usurpers.  
  
Reason resumed its throne.  
  
“If you feel so strongly about the matter of Miss Sutherland, then I suggest you tend to it as you see fit.”  
  
My voice was even and cool, and I rejoiced in the delusion that I had not given myself away.  
  
“Oh, I will.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
I half-expected him to storm out that moment, but he only looked about the room as if he’d lost something.  
  
The sitting room was in an extreme state of disarray, piles of papers and books and bric-a-brac scattered in all directions.  
  
I watched mutely as he found what he sought: a riding crop.  
  
I remained seated, my arms resting on the arms of the chair.  
  
He closed the distance between us and stood before me. Then, like a sovereign bestowing knighthood, tapped me on each shoulder with the crop.  
  
“I didn’t know, Holmes.”  
  
I warred with myself, then replied,  
  
“How could you?”  
  
He dragged the keeper of the crop along my jaw and looked at me, oh, looked at me with an infernal heat I would’ve scarcely thought possible outside my naughtiest midnight reveries.  
  
My body began to stir, and I closed my eyes as the keeper and Watson’s gaze travelled lower.  
  
“No.”  
  
His voice was like steel.  
  
I opened my eyes at once and looked at him, questioningly.  
  
One corner of his mouth lifted.  
  
“Don’t close your eyes until I tell you.”  
  
“Yes,” I pressed my lips together briefly, “Captain.”  
  
He smiled at that.  
  
I wanted to make him smile. I wanted to do anything he asked of me.  
  
He looked behind him, and in a few moments, my hands were being bound to the arms of the chair with napkins. The knots were strong but not inviolable.  
  
They were symbolic.  
  
They were a fantasy come true.  
  
He brought the keeper of the crop once more to the base of my neck, then drew it down, southward.  
  
He made a careful outline of the bulge between my legs, which was, by then, prominent.  
  
Then he leaned forward, his hands on my forearms, and whispered,  
  
“This is not the hour.”  
  
True. Mrs. Hudson would be in shortly to collect the breakfast things.  
  
But it was, perhaps, the place.  
  
“Later?” I asked, hesitatingly.  
  
He nodded.  
  
Then, very swiftly, the napkins were back on the table, and the crop was once more among the detritus of the room.  
  
“Holmes, you are, of course, free at any time to change your mind.”  
  
“My dear man…”  
  
What I thought was: what use had I for freedom when I’d found the perfect captor?  
  
But what I said was:  
  
“…so are you, naturally.”


	2. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson is proved wrong. 
> 
> Coming from nipple stimulation alone. Assisted masturbation. 
> 
> Written for Day 18 of 2019 Merry Month of Masturbation.

I gazed down at the bare torso with a curious mix of emotions. First was the professional detachment of the surgeon before the first cut. Second was the heady anticipation of the artist before a blank canvas. Third was pure adoration for the man who was putting himself, wholly and literally, in my hands.

A trite declaration of poet and lover surfaced in my thoughts, but I immediately dismissed it as distraction.

Nevertheless, Holmes’s skin _did_ glow handsomely in the candlelight.

As earlier in the day, Holmes’s wrists were bound to the arms of a chair. The chair itself, however, was one we’d rescued from Mrs. Hudson’s lumber room for our purpose.

The bonds were dark braids of silk rope, which Holmes had procured from whence I knew not. The bonds were symbolic rather than functional. Holmes could free himself at any moment that he wished.

But he didn’t wish, and that much was evident.

Holmes’s dressing gown was silk and of a deep burgundy colour and in a careful state of disarray. Specifically, as to the last, most of the material was bunched at his waist. Two sides curled inward over his thighs but without meeting or concealing much. The sash was tied loosely at his waist, its tails streaming down on either side like may pole ribbons.

As fetching a picture as it was, Holmes’s flaccid prick framed by elegant, rich swathes, my attention was drawn elsewhere.

Down to shirtsleeves, I rolled up my cuffs and moved to one side of Holmes.

I reached down and ran my left hand over his upper body in a kind of brush-stroke caress. I began at his jaw, sweeping the curve of his neck and the ridge of his shoulders. My touch was deeper when my fingertips reached his chest. I noted the firmness of his pectoral muscles and gave a cursory stroke to each nipple. I bent and let my hand roam over his abdomen, observing the dressing gown sash as my lower boundary.

I said nothing but moved to the other side and repeated the whole litany with my right hand before announcing,

“Handsome.”

“Thank you.”

The lover in me was chastened. The surgeon had been planning the steps that he would take and not take and contingencies. The artist had been consumed with the colours and effects he might produce. But I’d quite forgotten about my third role. I adored Holmes to the edge of reason and far beyond the code of drawing room respectability, and no amount of play should eclipse that.

I glanced at the weather station, and by that, I mean Holmes’s prick.

Not yet half-hard.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to the quivering pulse point of his neck. Then I said, almost conversationally,

“When you box. When you are injured. At the bath.”

“Wherever you wish,” he retorted. “Whenever we are free to indulge each other’s whims and desires.”

I moved in front of him. I extended my hands, and two fingers of each hand began rubbing a nipple, up and down.

Holmes exhaled a soft sigh.

I licked my fingers and resumed the caress.

Up and down.

“Will they pebble?”

Holmes grunted.

I began toying with the delightful buds, rubbing in a circular motion, widening the touch with each pass until it the encompassed the whole pectoral area, then narrowing it once more.

Then I smoothed a teasing hand down the centre of him, stopping once more at the sash.

His prick was half-hard now, and I thought it jerked when I said,

“Shall I suck them? Like a whore’s?”

Holmes whimpered his assent.

WHAM!

I tipped Holmes backwards. After the jolt of the back of the chair hitting the edge of the table, he was balanced somewhat precariously on two chair legs.

This arrangement was by design. We’d practiced it earlier.

When I was certain Holmes was as stable as could be hoped, I lowered my head over his slanted torso and covered one nipple with my mouth.

Holmes gave a tender cry at first contact, a sound which reassured the surgeon, artist, and lover.

I alternated sucking with fast flicking and slower licking of the nipple with my tongue.

While I experimented, Holmes vibrated with tension. He was trying valiantly to keep his movements to a minimum, if for nothing but to preserve his own safety in the chair, but his body was in open rebellion.

His chest rose and fell swiftly and sharply with his increased respiration, and by the time I’d finished with the second nipple, he was covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

His stiff rosy buds glistened.

“They do pebble,” I observed.

Holmes put chin to chest.

 

I leaned down and, with my tongue extended like a dog’s, gave each nipple one more wide, fat, wet lick.

“Watson.”

The word was a strained plea.

I checked.

Holmes’s prick was very hard.

“Touch yourself and you’ll be punished,” I said severely. “ _And_ I’ll go to bed.”

“No, no, no, of course not.”

I resumed my ministrations: slow, wide, and very wet licking, mostly of his nipples but also a trail down to his waist and along each clavicle. Always, I angled my head so that he might best see my tongue at work.

“Oh, Watson.”

I nuzzled at his belly and hummed.

“I’ve been,” he swallowed, “very _naughty_.”

Ah, there it was.

I righted myself abruptly and raised an eyebrow as I met his gaze. My voice was harsh.

“Did you forget whose you are?”

“Just for a moment,” he stammered apologetically.

I let the chair down gently, then circled Holmes, stopping when I was directly behind him.

I reached down. I pinched. Hard.

The cry was strangled.

I reached down again, this time farther. I sank my nails into his skin and dragged them upwards.

This outburst might have woken the neighbours if I hadn’t quickly covered Holmes’s mouth with my hands.

“None of that,” I hissed, “or I’ll gag you.”

WHAM!

I slammed the chair back and dove headfirst.

I bit. Twice.

His lips were pinched tight. His whole face was contorted in a mask of agony.

I lowered the chair, not as gently as before, and said,

“I’m going to lick and bite, love you and punish you again and again, all night, until dawn, until you—”

And that, as they say, was that.

The surgeon decided the procedure had gone quite well. The artist couldn’t have been happier with the canvas, decorated as it was. But the lover was somewhat contrite.

“I owe you an apology, Holmes,” I said as I knelt before him and cleaned him.

“Whatever for, my dear man?” He spoke with a slight slur, and his brow was furrowed.

“When you told me earlier, I didn’t believe you were as, well, sensitive as you claimed to be.”

“You are free to doubt my word, especially when it concerns a phenomenon that you have never witnessed, Watson. And I am free, as always, to prove you wrong.”

I smiled and took his hand and kissed the fingers.

“I’m yours to be used, Holmes.”

“And I, yours, Watson. And there may be more surprises yet for both of us.”


	3. Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes is disciplined after the Sutherland case. 
> 
> Impact play. Anal play.

“Do you understand?”

I understood.

I’d understood from their first row following the end of the Sutherland case.

Watson had been right. I had been callous as well as patronising in his response to the young lady’s plight. Mary Sutherland was neither a child nor a simpleton. She ought to have been told at once what her family had contrived and why.

I had recognised the wisdom of Watson’s words almost at once. The impassioned rebuke had served as a bright light directed at my own shortcoming, and I had endured a sharp pang of nausea at the reckoning.

Of course, there had been a boon as well, one that had far outstripped the negative experience of having my character flaws, including a lack of responsibility and chivalry, pointed out by my beloved.

The boon, dare I call it a blessing, was that Watson had learned of his desire and the peculiar shape it took, and he’d not turned away. On the contrary, he’d indicated a similar desire, reciprocal in intensity and complimentary in affectation.

But Watson was a careful, beautiful, plodding soul, and this was unknown territory for both. Neither of us knew precisely or wholly where our pleasures or our limits lay. But the charting of this undiscovered country was an ambrosial prospect. Indeed, the first foray had been beyond my wildest imaginings, and I had imagined quite a bit in my years of hidden fantasy.

Watson had asked where we should begin. I had replied I wanted to put myself in his hands, to have him explore my sensitivities. Watson, ever the man of science as well as action, had asked me to narrow the field of human anatomy.

I had obliged.

In the two days since our initial encounter, many substances had brushed my nipples, cloth of different textures, water, soap, and now, interestingly enough, wood. With almost every touch, I had remembered Watson’s mouth and fingers and, yes, later, oh, God, later, after I had shamelessly spent myself and was as aware of the world as a long-time resident of a Limehouse den, a handsome, erect prick of mouth-watering thickness.

That night, was it only two nights ago, Watson had rubbed his sex against my much loved and much abused chest and later massaged his emissions into my skin.

I confess I wept.

Then even later, or perhaps, earlier as it seemed that night neared day at a thoroughly unnatural pace, as I had laid cradled in Watson’s arms, I’d heard Watson’s promise to explore the second of my sensitivities when the matter of Mary Sutherland had been settled to his satisfaction.

It had taken two days.

In the meantime, I arranged for privacy in the form of Mrs. Hudson accompanying Mrs. Turner to view an exhibition of quilts in Brighton for the weekend. As soon as the good ladies had departed, I had ransacked the horde of the lumber room for an appropriate prop and the rest of the house for potential disciplinary instruments.

And, now, here I was, nude, bent over an A-shaped frame, my buttocks and thighs on the receiving end of enthusiastically dispensed blows.

There were frequent pauses. Watson often rounded the frame to caress my upper body and ask me how I was feeling. There were kisses, too, to my lips, to my temple, to my hair, to my shoulders.

To combat the light-headedness produced by this barrage of affection, I set my mind to speculating on Watson’s evaluation of each instrument.

The broom handle and the leather strap were, he’d deemed, too crude.

The crop, too sophisticated.

The whip, though I thought Watson appreciated the sound it made, too unwieldy.

The hairbrush seemed the front-runner until the paddle.

Oh, the paddle.

Watson hummed and roughly fondled each of my buttocks. The caresses stung like fire, but I didn’t care.

Soon, Watson’s hums became coarse grunts and his hands were replaced by his mouth. He licked, then bit at my flesh.

My prick was, by that time, straining painfully against the wood of the frame, and when Watson halted, stepped ‘round, gave my jaw a caress and my lips a kiss and said, “On my lap,” I could only whimper with acquiescence and relief.

My upper body got a thorough massage and my soul a thorough petting before I was aided in stretching myself over Watson’s lap, the gap between Watson’s legs providing a window for my throbbing prick.

Two blows.

I felt Watson’s bare hand only twice before I was being thrown bodily onto the covered sofa, but I made a note to, at some opportune moment in the future, mention my appreciation of the sensation produced and fervent desire for more.

“Knuckles where I can see them.”

I obeyed and curled my fingers ‘round the arm of the sofa, one knee on the seat, one leg stretched to the floor for balance.

No more blows.

Just licks.

Just a tongue.

Just Watson’s tongue inside me, licking me open.

“Watson.”

I gripped the sofa tighter.

“Don’t touch yourself.”

I had no intention of touching myself. That would spoil the beauty of the whole affair. My prick was in a state of agony, but that did not concern me in the least.

More tongue. Lapping, teasing.

Hands spreading buttocks. A deeper plunge.

As delicious as it was, it wasn’t enough.

“Mount me,” I begged.

The abrupt disappearance of sensation was my only warning.

WHACK!

The pain, sharp and splintering, momentarily blinded me.

“You said you understood.”

“I’m sorry, Captain,” I stammered when I was able to speak. “As you wish.”

“How?”

The question sounded like the crack of a whip, and I struggled to complete the unspoken part of the inquiry. I must’ve been thinking too long, for Watson asked again, with audible impatience,

“You know you have this sensitivity. How?”

“My own fingers.”

“And?”

I swallowed.

“And Victor’s.”

* * *

“Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god…”

Watson’s index finger was not long as my own, but it was thicker, gloriously thicker.

“You’re in my hands. My hands, or at least one part of one of them, are in you.”

“Yes!”

“Move with me.”

It was graceless and awkward and painful, but then Watson said,

“Here. Right here. Perfect.”

I was on his knees before the fire. Watson was behind me, his finger still buried inside me, his voice in my ear.

“I’m aching to mount you, love. I’m mad with wanting to do it. But not this time.”

This time.

This time meant next time and next time and we would go on doing this for years and years...

The pinch of teeth on my neck brought me back to the rug before the fire.

“Listen. This time, you first. I want to see. I want to you to show me. I want—"

I rolled my hips.

Watson understood.

“Like this, is it?”

Watson’s finger moved. My thighs moved.

My desire pooled. My body tensed.

“Oh, ho, ho!” exclaimed Watson with a light chuckle as my prick spat. “Now there’s something.”

Kisses were applied to the side of my face, my neck, and my shoulder. Then I pitched forward and rolled onto my back.

“Look how you’ve left me,” said Watson, gesturing to his own handsome prick. One, two, three tugs of his hand, and he was coming to crisis with my name on his lips.

“I didn’t doubt you this time, Holmes.” Watson wiped himself with a cloth, then crawled towards me. “I just needed to discover the right elements.” He cocked his head and added cheekily, “And implements.”

I hummed as Watson cleaned me. “Paddle?”

Watson smiled shyly and didn’t look up as he set about cleaning me.

“I like the rosy bloom,” he confessed.

“So do I,” said I as I ran a finger across Watson’s blushing cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a bit cursed. RL stole my momentum. And I just realized I first wrote the chapter in the wrong tense. Bleh! A quick non-porny ending to come. Heh.


	4. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Holmes exhausts himself on a case, Watson convinces him to take a rest cure in the country.
> 
> No smut. Reference to "The Reigate Squires." The final 100 words was written for the DW Watson's Woes 2019 May Drabble fest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this story, I would recommend subscribing. I feel strongly I may return to this and write about what Watson and Holmes got up to in the gamekeeper's cottage. It won't be now, but I think it's ripe for a return and a fleshing out. Thanks for your support!

I was relieved to find that Holmes was not dead although I daresay for his sake an attempt at necromancy would have been caused me little discomfiture.

I sat at his bedside in the Hotel Dulong in Lyon as the congratulatory telegrams poured in. News of his role in dismantling the schemes of Baron Maupertuis was ringing throughout Europe, but I only had eyes for the man, not the legend.

“You have not taken care of yourself, Holmes.”

He shook his head. “But it is over. That’s why I sent for you. Watson…”

The way he said my name sealed my resolve.

“You are coming home with me, and then, we are going to the country to stay with my friend Colonel Hayter in Surrey.”

“No.”

“Yes. You require rest.”

“Perhaps,” Holmes conceded with some reluctance. “But how am I to rest when there are people,” he grimaced, “about?”

“I don’t suggest a stay with Hayter idly, Holmes. I think you and he will find you have much in common.”

Holmes turned his head and raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Like what?”

“For starters, he is also a confirmed bachelor.”

A new light came suddenly to Holmes’s eyes, and he spoke with more energy than he had since I’d arrived.

“How well do you know him, Watson?”

“He was my patient in Afghanistan.”

Holmes gave a curt nod. I continued.

“He is a fine old soldier, and he has seen much of the world—”

“Has he now? How much of your world has he seen, Doctor?”

Needs must when the Devil is being a stubborn ass, so I was more than prepared to use Holmes’s baseless jealousy for my own purposes.

“That you will have to deduce for yourself, my dear man. But, let’s see, in addition to the quiet of the country and Hayter’s generous hospitality,” Holmes snorted at this, “we might also make use of the gamekeeper’s cottage. It is, I’m given to understand, a rather isolated little place in the woods.”

Like a magician, I produced a length of silken rope and looped it loosely around Holmes’s wrist. “A very secluded,” I tied a single knot and pulled the ends very, very gently, “place where we might enjoy the fullest freedom.”

Holmes met my gaze.

His eyes were dark, his nostrils flaring. His chest rose and fell with a decided quickness, and if I had the notion to put my fingers to his pulse, I knew I would find it a flutter as a nye of pheasants roused in the fens.

I knew I had him in my hands, so I proceeded very carefully.

“As soon as you are healthy enough, Holmes, to enjoy such freedom.”

“Watson.” Oh, how the word tempted me. “It has been so long.”

It had been far too long for me, too, but I insisted, “Not until you are strong enough, Holmes.”

I pulled the ends of the cord and jerked the knot tight.

Holmes trembled, then whispered,

“Of course. As you wish.”

* * *

_My dearest Hayter,_

_I can’t thank you enough for your generous hospitality. Our stay was just what the doctor ordered—and what both doctor and patient required! We are safely back in London. Holmes shows every sign of being recovered in body, mind, and spirit, and, as his friend and partner, there is nothing more I could want. I must admit that despite my initial misgivings, the puzzle with which your neighbours saw fit to gift us was quite perfect. My eternal gratitude for allowing us the fullest freedom of your handsome estate._

_Your friend and servant,_

_John H. Watson_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
